


soldier, keep on marching on

by kolbietheninja



Series: Naruto Crossovers [1]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Naruto
Genre: Complete, Crossover, Eye Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Podfic Welcome, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:34:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26587441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolbietheninja/pseuds/kolbietheninja
Summary: He is half-expecting a gasp, a flicker of surprise, a shocked murmur along the lines of, “Your eyes…!”Instead, Akashicchi asks, stoically but with a hint of concern (a new development following his defeat at the Winter Cup), “Ryouta, what’s wrong?”[Uchiha Shisui reborn as Kise Ryouta. No pairings. Complete.]
Series: Naruto Crossovers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1208586
Comments: 9
Kudos: 109





	soldier, keep on marching on

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "Soldier" by Fleurie.
> 
> Check out more of my writing at kolbiethewriter on tumblr.

One moment, he’s rushing forward to ambush Kurokocchi with a hug - because it’s been _way_ too long since they saw each other, and _really,_ why can’t he reply to _any_ of Ryouta’s messages? Would it be so hard? - and the next, he’s doubled over, gasping in pain, hands reaching up to cover his eyes, which are suddenly _on fire_ , like burning coals or the wrong end of a cigarette. It _hurts_ , _burns_ , and he can’t help the whimpers that escape, nor the tears that leak out in response.

There are panicked voices all around him, hands touching him, moving him, checking for injuries. But he can’t focus, can’t understand the frantic pleas or whispered conversations, can’t comprehend _anything_ beyond the terrible pain, the strange, strained certainty that if he opens his eyes, they _won’t be there._ This pain is _familiar_ , horribly, hauntingly familiar, and his head pounds angrily with a flood of images and information that follows that train of thought.

 _Uchiha_ , he thinks, pale skin and black hair and a red and white fan. Too much pride, too much bitterness, but so much love and compassion for what’s _theirs_ that it almost hurts.

 _Sharingan_ comes next, redredred eyes, pinwheels and the next stage and power wrapped up in grief and anger and regret. So, so much regret.

 _Danzo,_ and it’s writhing with betrayal and fury and _I should never have trusted you._ Traitor, thief, warmonger, insanity hidden behind a thin veil of devotion and loyalty taken too far.

 _Itachi,_ he remembers, awkward goodness, unable to fully understand other people, never questioned his orders and he _worried-_ but he'd been convinced that his way was wrong, and surely Itachi could _fix things-_

Which brings him to-

 _Nakano_ , cold, thrashing, swept up in an unforgiving current and pulled down, down, down. One last breath of air, held held held and then- nothing.

Nothing until now.

The pain doesn’t subside, but he’s slowly getting used to it, or more able to set it aside and focus past it. He’s a shinobi, or was, and is used to pain. Due to long practice, he manages to get his breathing under control, his pulse down to a more normal level, but his thoughts are racing, galloping to each realization and conclusion.

Reincarnation. Only, it didn’t quite work, or something got messed up somewhere along the way because he _remembers_. His life as Uchiha Shisui is startlingly clear. Entirely too much so, given the phantom pain raising hell in his eye sockets, the crushing pressure in his chest and throat making it harder to breathe.

The cool breeze brushing his skin is a welcome relief, the smooth, polished wood beneath him a stark difference from a rocky riverbed. The artificial light, the squeak of sneakers, the cacophonous murmur of many voices, the warm presence of trusted allies at his side - all of it is enough to keep him grounded, gives him the strength to shake off the uneasiness and desperation trying to creep up from behind and drag him into old, old memories, the courage to remove his hands and opens his eyes despite the clawing dread-fear-certainty that somehow _Ryouta’s_ eyes are gone too and only pitch black darkness awaits him.

Bright light, bursting with color, and a startling clarity. The first thing he sees is that polished wooden floor, his own knees, an abundance of well-worn sneakers, and then: a calloused, gentle hand reaching out to grasp his chin and tilt his head up.

He is half-expecting a gasp, a flicker of surprise, a shocked murmur along the lines of, “Your eyes…!”

Instead, Akashicchi asks, stoically but with a hint of concern (a new development following his defeat at the Winter Cup), “Ryouta, what’s wrong?”

 _Everything_ , he thinks sardonically because Shisui killed himself for his village and for his clan, and he never expected to survive it- and maybe reincarnation doesn’t count, but he’s alive, and he remembers, and he has no way of going back even if he wanted to. No way of hearing any news, of finding out what happened, and he hopes desperately that it didn’t come to a civil war, that it didn’t come down to the Uchiha vs the Village.

 _Everything is wrong_ , and he’ll never know what happened, can only hope for the best and move on.

He bites back the words, tucks away the roiling emotion in his chest, pulls on Kise Ryouta’s endless cheer (not fake, not usually, but Ryouta is already quite used to hiding away the darker parts of himself, putting on a harmless front, and now is no different), and waves away the concern with a bright smile. “Aha, I’m okay, Akashicchi!” He feigns sheepishness, “I forgot to eat anything today, and I guess it finally caught up with me.”

All around him, groans and threatening mutters break out, everyone’s relief almost palpable, and it makes Ryouta smile, despite everything.

“You had me worried, idiot,” Kasamatsu tells him grumpily, but his hand is a warm weight on Ryouta’s back, a physical reminder that he’s here and at the same time a way for him to reassure himself the same of Ryouta. “Take better care of yourself!”

“Sorry, sorry!” He accepts all the ribbing and rebukes with grace, something like wonder bubbling up in his chest, something warm and soft and sweet. It’s a bit jarring to go from open hostility and suspicion on all sides, from desperation and hopelessness and grim resignation to… this. To concern and kindness and friendliness with no ulterior motive, no threat of death, his own or his clan’s or all the innocents that would have gotten in the crossfire should any of the disaster scenarios he was trying to prevent come to pass.

His life in this world is _peaceful,_ and there is no village to protect, no clan’s honor to uphold, and while there are high expectations of him, the _stakes_ aren’t, and it’s… He doesn’t know how he feels about it, this sudden retirement. Because he’s spent well over half his life as a shinobi, is proud of it, proud to be an Uchiha, never wanted to be anything _else_ , and he’s never contemplated a different path, a different life. 

(He expected to live and die on the battlefield, and even if the circumstances changed, and he ended up killing himself, it was for the greater good, for his clan and for Konoha, and he doesn’t regret it, _can’t_ regret it. He made his choice, and he has to believe it was the right one because all he has right now is belief, belief and faith in Itachi and the Will of Fire that burns in all of them, no matter what people try to insinuate about the Uchiha.)

Luckily, he’s got sixteen years of being Kise Ryouta under his belt, and for all that he was Shisui first, he’s gotten used to being Ryouta, too. Gotten used to peace and safety and a lack of fighting. Sure, there was emotional strife, and he’s not downplaying the severity of it, the fragility of the Generation of Miracles, the turmoil and angst, all the victims of their arrogance, indifference, malice, and pettiness, including each other. Emotional blows can be much more painful and take longer to heal than physical ones, after all.

But the one thing there is absolutely no coming back from is death - barring the Nidaime’s forbidden jutsu, but that doesn’t really count - and none of his friends or teammates were ever in danger of killing or being killed. Maybe they’ve lost loved ones, maybe they’ve grieved, but even _Akashi_ has had more of a childhood than Shisui ever had, and from the things he’s observed of his once captain, his home life was - is - anything but pleasant.

It’s… _good_ , to see children laughing and playing together, partaking in schooling and sports and always, always having their safety come first. To know that the youngest age one can join the military in this world is _twenty_ rather than five or six. There are still skirmishes and wars, countries considered great powers practically ruling hand and fist over the rest of the world, but nothing like _shinobi_ wars, like the shinobi world itself.

Maybe it’s the lack of anything remotely similar to chakra, or maybe the world is so vast, so large that shinobi ideals never really took root anywhere but here, in Japan (and even then, it died out, didn't survive the shift to modern warfare.) He doesn’t know, but he’s glad for it regardless, relieved that he hasn’t fallen out of the frying pan and into the fryer.

He can finally just...be. He can relax, for once, without the ever present threat of civil war. His family here is as civilian as they come, not haunted by life or death battles or divided loyalties. His mother has never had to send him off to the battlefield and spent countless nights praying he comes back home alive. His sisters didn't have their childhood ripped away, have never experienced the horrors of war or the all-consuming tide of grief.

This. This is what peace is. This is what he was fighting for. What every shinobi should be striving for - this safer, kinder, peaceful world.

Amidst the teasing and cajoling, Ryouta is pulled to his feet and corralled over to the closest bench. Someone shoves a bag of chips in his hands, and he can see others rooting around in their bags, looking for more food. Except for them and the few still hovering worriedly over him, the others have gone back to their own groups all around the gym, talking quietly as they warm up and occasionally sneaking glances his way. 

"Go on. Eat it, dumbass. You're shaking," Kasamatsu orders, nudging him much more gently than usual, showing off the soft, gooey center he usually works so hard to hide.

Dimly, Ryouta realizes he's right. His hands are trembling. But it's not from hunger. In fact, he feels nauseous at the thought of eating. Still, he opens the bag of chips with unsteady fingers, and under the combined weight of his friends' stares, he shoves a handful in his mouth and chews slowly.

Kasamatsu makes a noise of approval, looming over him like he's about to shake him down for money - or more accurately, like he's going to get violent if Ryouta fails to finish the bag. Ryouta almost snorts at the thought.

Kagami and Aomine start up a one-on-one in the meantime. Some of the Seiren guys hoot and holler, cheering their teammate on and jeering at his opponent. The rest - including their captain - seem to be content silently observing.

Of the other teams, only a few came to the impromptu, informal tournament this time - their own respective Miracles plus a trusted teammate-turned-friend. Ryouta is no different. It had been a spur of the moment thing, spawned from the knowledge that a good chunk of them had the free time and the desire. Ever since the season ended, it's been nigh impossible to get everyone together again since the third years spend most of their time studying and preparing for the future after graduation, so when the opportunity presents itself, they jump at it.

This is meant to be a fun get-together between fellow basketball fanatics and friends, a much needed reprieve for their sempai and a longed for chance to play with said former teammates for their kouhai, not the grounds for a world-toppling realization that he's lived and died and risen again despite everything.

So he does his best to box up his emotions and set them aside until he has time to carefully pick them through them later and hopefully work them out, and then he dutifully sits through another half hour of mother-henning before he decides enough is enough and needles his captain into chasing him around the gym, cackling gleefully all the while.

He's been given a new lease on life, a clean slate, and he's going to grab it with both hands, pull himself out of the clinging miasma of his past life's tragedy and into the blindingly bright future that lies ahead.


End file.
